


Let Them All Say What They Will

by whiskeywitch



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Soft Geralt and Jaskier, The Bard Loves His Witcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywitch/pseuds/whiskeywitch
Summary: Jaskier knows exactly how to make Geralt feel better after a rough contract.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 138





	Let Them All Say What They Will

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jaskier sings is an old Irish ballad called "The Flower of Maherally." [Check it out here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDK6_i4yweY) I recommend listening to the studio recording on Spotify too!

_One pleasant summer's morning, when all the flowers were springing, oh_

_Nature was adorning and the wee birds sweetly singing, oh_

_I met my love near Banbridge Town, my charming blue-eyed Sally, oh_

Jaskier has a beautiful tenor, and his voice glides and lilts over the notes he plays on his lute. Geralt might better appreciate the impromptu performance if he wasn’t busy trying to read. 

The bard and the witcher are sitting in a town square, a few paces away from the shelter that covers the communal well. People are mostly ignoring them, but Geralt has glanced up to see a milkmaid staring as she passes. She is carrying what is no doubt a very heavy pail, and is so besotted with Jaskier that she spills milk everywhere when she crashes into another passerby. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks back down at the piece of parchment in his gloved hands. The local baron has put out a contract for the killing of a griffin. They’re normally not pests near villages, but this one seems to be taking advantage of the local livestock. At least that’s what the official wording is. Geralt has asked around and he knows that this particular beast has also been pouncing on the occasional field laborer. 

“Jaskier, shush. I’m trying to read,” Geralt says. 

“And I’m trying to make sure we don’t starve today,” Jaskier retorts between verses. 

Geralt sighs and stands up. “That's fair. I’m going to talk to the baron and lay a trap,” he says. 

“Will you come get me when everything is ready?” Jaskier is winking at another twitterpated girl, playing his lute, and speaking at the same time. Geralt doesn’t know how he multitasks like that. It’s both graceful and dizzying. 

“Absolutely not. You’re going to stay here and play your lute.” 

“How am I supposed to get material for songs about you if I don’t _see_ the heroic things you’re doing?” 

“This isn’t heroic. It’s extremely dangerous.” 

“Let the Oxenfurt Academy graduate be the judge of that.” 

Geralt doesn’t have the energy to argue. What started out as a cool, misty morning has become a hot afternoon as the sun burned away the last of the fog. The witcher is hungry and overly warm, feeling snappish as he goes to inquire about the contract. It’s nothing more than a professional courtesy to both the baron and anyone else who might already be pursuing the griffin. It’s old fashioned. These days, it’s highly unlikely that another witcher is after the exact same griffin. But Vesemir would insist he use good manners. 

The baron is friendly enough, but he makes a point to mention that the reward money is a collection taken from the villagers. This annoys Geralt even further. A collection generally means the rate is fixed and he can’t haggle for more. A calculated move on the baron’s part. It’s common knowledge that witchers are a dying breed and they’ll often take what they can get for coin. In the old days, it was: “Pay me what I ask or I’ll gladly take one of your sons instead.” 

Not like Geralt misses the way things used to be. He just wishes to command a fair price for the job. He’s usually paid double this rate—one time triple—for a griffin. No such luck this time. But it’s enough money to keep him, Jaskier, and Roach fed for a few weeks. All he has to do is return with the griffin’s head. 

Daylight is burning and Geralt has work to do, despite his hunger. Peach trees line the dirt road, branches hanging over the stone wall that marks the border of someone’s property. A little girl with her brown hair in a plait is sitting on the wall. Geralt is leading Roach and the mare whickers softly when he comes to a stop. His eyes flick from the fruit-laden branches to the girl. 

“Are you a witcher?” the girl asks. 

Geralt notes that she is maybe as old as Ciri would be right now. “I am. Are these your peach trees?” 

“They are,” she says primly. She kicks her dangling legs slowly. “They’re not quite ripe yet.” 

“I’d like a few anyway. Care to do some bartering?” 

She looks at him with a level of shrewdness that Geralt has only seen on wealthy traders in Novigrad. “What do you have?” 

Geralt starts looking through his saddlebags. He can’t spare what little coin he has left, so he must find something to trade. Geralt is a tiny bit of a hoarder in some respects. He grew up with virtually nothing. The elders at Kaer Morhen provided their little witchers with the absolute minimum to keep them alive, and anything else had to be earned or bought outright. Even now, Geralt owns little more than his two swords, armor, and Roach. There’s something to be said for traveling light, but Geralt often finds himself cramming odds and ends in his saddlebags. Most of these items have some level of value and come in handy during situations like this. 

Deep inside is something heavy and jagged. He pulls out a chunk of raw amethyst, the crystal points colored a deep purple. The girl’s eyes widen, but she keeps her merchant-like composure. 

“How much is this worth, do you think?” 

“Three peaches.” 

Geralt tuts. “It’s very heavy. Surely you can do four?” 

“I suppose.” 

The girl stands up on the edge of the wall and carefully picks four nicely-sized peaches. They are so large in her tiny hands that she has to hand them to Geralt one at a time. Once he has the fruit, he hands her the amethyst. 

“Wow, that is heavy,” she marvels, cupping it in both hands.

Geralt is gathering up Roach’s reins. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

“Is it true that witchers’ eyes glow in the dark?” 

Someone has been telling this child surprisingly accurate bedtime stories. “Sort of. We have the same membrane in our eyes that cats do. It catches and reflects light. That helps us see in the dark.” 

She opens her mouth to say something else, but a woman’s scolding voice stops her short. There’s shouting about getting down from the wall and not talking to strangers. Geralt leaves before he can fall victim to whatever hiding is about to ensue. 

The girl was right. The peaches aren’t quite ripe. They also aren’t the golden kind Geralt is used to. Their peel isn’t fuzzy and the flesh is white. But they’re something to eat, and he finds that he likes the texture. Roach seems to like the one Geralt gives her—halved and pitted—from the palm of his hand. 

Geralt procures a dead sheep and takes it to a fallow field. Griffins prefer live prey and they are attracted to movement. However, Geralt has never known a griffin to be able to resist the easy pickings offered by a dead animal. He guts it to get the scent of blood and offal out in the open, then retreats to the grove that surrounds the field. It is marginally cooler in the shade and he wants to close his eyes. Instead, he watches the shimmery heat out in the field. 

“I know you’re there, Jaskier.” 

There’s grumbling from the underbrush. It sounds like a bear crashing through the trees, but it’s just the bard. “I was trying to sneak up on you.” 

“You can’t sneak up on a witcher,” Geralt says. “And it’s unwise besides.” 

Jaskier completely ignores Geralt’s statement, which is an annoying habit of his. “Any sight of the griffin yet?” 

“No, and you shouldn’t be here when it comes,” Geralt says.

“Geralt, I need to _see_ it so I can _write_ about it—”

The witcher growls. The heat is making him irritated. “It’s a royal griffin, which is larger and more aggressive than the common variety. If you don’t have the good fortune of being immediately crushed to death when it pounces, it tears into you with a beak that’s sharper than my swords. They’re like cats, and are known to wool people around for hours before killing them. They love to play with their food,” he says. “If it has babies, it will take you back to its nest and rip you into nice bite-sized pieces for them. While you’re alive.”

Jaskier clasps a hand to his chest in a show of mock tenderness. “Do all these grim details mean you care about me?” he asks. 

Geralt doesn’t have time to reply. The flap of the griffin’s wings stir the leaves on the trees and it lands heavily in the freshly tilled dirt. Geralt was so busy arguing with Jaskier that he didn’t hear the creature approach. It already has its head buried in the sheep carcass when Geralt draws his silver sword and runs toward it full-tilt. He bounds over the furrows of soft dirt, cursing himself for not choosing a spot with more solid ground. He doesn’t need a broken ankle right now. The griffin lifts its head, feathers soaked in blood, and screeches. 

Geralt swings in a wide arc, but the griffin rears up on its hind legs at the last second. It comes down on top of him all at once, knocking him back into the dirt with its entire weight. He is surrounded by a shroud of dusty, bloody feathers and is much closer to the griffin’s wicked beak than he would like to be. The griffin snaps and claws at him. His armor takes the worst of the abuse as he rolls to the side and scrambles for a weapon. 

The griffin is too close to be stabbed with Geralt’s sword, and he struggles to pull his dagger out of his boot. The razor edge of the griffin’s beak slashes at his leather cuirass. There’s a _thunk_ as something heavy hits the side of the griffin’s skull, just above its eye socket. Startled, it looks up. Jaskier is standing on the edge of the treeline with another rock at the ready. He looks just as shocked as the griffin, as if he didn’t expect his aim to be true. The griffin screams in fury and ruffles up its neck feathers. Geralt uses these precious seconds of distraction to snatch his sword and stab upward, through the bottom of the griffin’s chin. The sensation of his sword punching through the layers of bone in the skull is deeply satisfying. It's a quick, clean kill and the griffin dies without knowing what happened. Geralt prefers it that way. 

The creature's large, feathery body goes slack all at once and Geralt somehow manages to withdraw his blade and escape getting crushed. He hauls himself to his feet, face flushed and sweaty. 

“By the white goddess, that was exciting!” Jaskier says, hands on his skinny hips. 

“That was foolish,” Geralt corrects. 

Jaskier's shoulders sag a little and Geralt knows he hurt his feelings. But it makes him sick to think about how badly things could have turned out. A witcher getting fatally savaged by a griffin is no great loss to the world; it's the natural order of things. But a grizzly end to the gentle and talented bard would be a tragedy. Geralt decides to save the rest of his lecture for a time when he's not so overheated and annoyed. 

“What now?” Jaskier asks, subdued. 

“Cut the head off and get paid.” 

Roach snorts and stamps as Geralt ties the griffin head to her saddle. Jaskier watches all the proceedings in relative silence, which Geralt normally would find blissful. Instead, it bothers him for the simple fact that he caused the quiet. He walks beside Jaskier on their way back to the village rather than climbing onto Roach. 

“I'm sorry,” Geralt says abruptly. He is looking at the ground but he can feel Jaskier's puzzled blue eyes on him. 

“Whatever for?” 

The words come haltingly as Geralt tries to organize his thoughts. “...I was harsh with you. I should have thanked you. For thinking quickly, for being brave.” 

“Oh, all I did was throw a rock. But it was a very good throw, if I say so myself.” Jaskier is grinning. 

“It was,” the witcher agrees. 

“You're hot, tired, and probably not getting paid enough to even justify drawing your sword,” Jaskier says, patting the dusty pauldron that protects Geralt's shoulder. “All is forgiven.” 

Geralt thinks the bard regards him with more grace than he deserves. 

The sun is angling to the west by the time Jaskier and Geralt return to the baron’s small estate. The baron, a well-dressed but ugly man, is sitting at a table under the shade of a linden tree. It’s apparently grown too hot to conduct business inside. People are milling about in the yard. Most are laborers and servants, but a few are in line to speak with the baron. Everyone gives pause when they see Geralt carrying the griffin head by its beak. The crowd parts with no resistance. 

“Your griffin,” Geralt says, setting the feathery head on the ground. 

The baron looks disinterested as he tosses a pouch on the table. “Your pay.” 

Geralt doesn’t go out of his way to touch and be touched, but he gets irritated when people won’t do him the simple courtesy of handing him things. “Being a witcher isn’t contagious,” he says as he picks up the pouch. He speaks with both levity and a bit of snark. 

“And thank fuck for that,” the baron snorts. 

The mood shifts quickly. Geralt can’t pinpoint what sours him. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the baron’s shitty attitude toward him, maybe it's the fact the pouch is light. He unceremoniously upends it and dumps the coins on the table. Jaskier takes in a sharp breath. 

“Excuse me?” the baron asks. 

Geralt is silent, pushing coins to the side with two gloved fingers. He’s counting them right on top of the papers that the baron has spread on the table. 

“We agreed on 200 crowns,” Geralt says evenly. 

The baron is incredulous. “Are you accusing me of cheating you?” 

“Not accusing. I can count.” 

The people within earshot murmur to each other and the guards, who look incapable of protecting even a henhouse, shift anxiously. Geralt is waiting for Jaskier’s hand on his arm, a signal to back off, but it never comes. The witcher stands there expectantly until the baron gestures to someone. The fifty crown discrepancy is quickly sorted. 

“Get out of my sight,” the baron says, as if Geralt has been the one doing the cheating. 

Geralt is unbothered. “Gladly.” 

Jaskier doesn't speak until they're out on the dusty road once more. “You had me in a cold sweat, witcher.”

“The baron too,” Geralt says dryly. 

“Why do people do that to you?” 

Geralt shrugs and it makes his sore body twinge. “People don't like witchers.” 

“You show up, do awful work for shit pay, and they don't even want to pay you the sum they agreed upon,” Jaskier says in disgust. He is wound up by the injustice of it all but Geralt is used to it. 

“Tales of the old ways persist. People still think we kidnap boys and poison them until they either die or become witchers,” he says. 

Dusk is creeping into the sky when they pass the farm with the stone wall and the peach trees. The little girl is no longer sitting there, but it reminds Geralt of the two peaches he has left. He gives one to Jaskier and eats the other. 

“I suppose we shouldn’t stay here tonight,” Jaskier says. 

“It would be unwise,” Geralt says before biting into his peach. He has to suck at the flesh to keep the juice from running down his chin. 

“Oxenfurt isn’t far.” 

Geralt makes a noise of agreement. He is sore and tired and dirty, but he’ll gladly trade another hour or two of travel in exchange for a real bed. His back hurts from just the thought of sleeping on the ground tonight.

It’s dark when they reach the Western Gate of Oxenfurt. The night is clear and all the heat is gone out of the air. Jaskier waxes poetic about his days at school as they pass by the Academy, and they follow the winding streets down to the town center.

Oxenfurt is a little more _enlightened_ than most places, Geralt would say. People here either don’t notice he’s a witcher or they look past him. There are no sideways glances or small gestures against evil when he walks into a tavern with Jaskier. His money is good here and it’s unlikely anyone will give him grief. All good things. 

“You need a bath,” Jaskier says after supper. “Urgently.” 

Geralt snorts into his tankard. “That bad?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll ruin the linens if you sleep on them as you are now,” Jaskier says. 

“I don’t think this type of establishment has linens that can be ruined.” Geralt is both doubtful and sarcastic, but he’s got a wry smile on his face. “But this is your roundabout way of saying you don’t want to sleep with me until I bathe.” 

“Precisely. Which is why I’m going to make arrangements,” Jaskier says, standing up from the rough-hewn table. 

“Here, take this.” 

“No need. You’re not the only one who made some coin today,” Jaskier says, patting Geralt’s arm. “And I didn’t have to shake down a baron for it, either.” 

“You’re an ass,” Geralt mutters, but he’s grinning. 

He takes his time finishing his cider, using the quiet of Jaskier’s absence to decompress a bit. It’s been a hell of a day, and Jaskier put up with him through the entirety of it. He’s not quite sure he deserves the bard’s companionship. 

Jaskier and Geralt meet in their room. Hot water has been brought upstairs, bucket by bucket, to fill a tub. There’s no time to waste. Geralt has already loosened the buckles that strap his swords across his back and Jaskier is picking at the knots in the laces of his vambraces. There’s a certain tension in the air as Geralt is stripped naked, quilted fabric and leather pulled away to reveal his pale skin. Jaskier’s eyes are on him, though Geralt feels appraised rather than scrutinized.

Geralt is covered in scrapes and bruises. An ordinary man would have been overpowered and savaged by that griffin, but the witcher merely winces when Jaskier tugs his shirt over his head. His neck and shoulders zing with pain. 

“Sore?” Jaskier asks. “Sorry.” 

“I’m fine. Hot water will help.” 

It’s more than just plain hot water. Geralt doesn’t need heightened senses to smell the lavender, chamomile, and aromatic salts that have been dissolved in it. Geralt is both amused and mildly disgusted. “I’m going to smell _lovely_.” 

“The intent is to relax you, but yes,” Jaskier says with a laugh. 

The bard dips a sponge in the water and lathers it with soap. It is unscented, the kind made with lard and lye. Geralt feels a little pang of nostalgia, as the plain soap reminds him of being small and getting rough scrubs from Vesemir. 

Geralt would normally protest and say that he is perfectly capable of washing himself. But Jaskier seems so intent on scrubbing him that Geralt decides to just let it happen. It might even be sensual if he didn’t feel so damn awkward about it. Geralt can never manage to look directly in Jaskier’s blue eyes, as they are always full of earnest admiration. The bard seems to find him attractive, which Geralt can’t understand. Countless brushes with monsters have made him a patchwork of scars. Their color ranges on a gradient from light pink to purple, depending on how fresh they are. Jaskier doesn’t ask about them because he already knows the origin of each one. The mere memory of the bard tracing his clever, calloused fingertips over them makes a little quiver run through Geralt’s body. 

“Are you cold?” Jaskier asks. “I’m almost done.” 

“No, it was just one of those shivers you get.” 

Jaskier hums wordlessly in reply as he sweeps the dripping sponge across Geralt’s chest. The room is warm enough that the water doesn’t feel cold on his skin. Jaskier is completely focused on his task and appears to be heedless of the little glances Geralt keeps stealing. 

“I think I knocked off the worst of it,” Jaskier finally says, standing back to look at Geralt like he is a painting in progress. 

“At least it’s not selkiemore guts,” Geralt says. 

“Getting that out of your hair was a terrible, trying time,” the bard says. “This will be much easier.” 

“...You’re going to wash my hair?” 

Geralt tries to speak in a dubious, uncertain tone but it comes out more hopeful than he intends. A smile plays on Jaskier's lips and Geralt truly has to restrain himself from kissing them. 

“Of course I am,” the bard says. “It’s filthy.”

The water is mercifully warm; sliding into a hot bath is one of Geralt’s favorite sensations. He’d be content to just sit there with his eyes closed until the water cooled. Jaskier rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and sets to work, gently tugging the leather tie out of Geralt’s hair. He produces a brush, seemingly out of thin air, and begins working the tangles out. 

Geralt has never been great about taking care of his hair. Even before it started coming in stark white, the only attention it ever received was when Vesemir raked a brush through it before bed. It’s not a coincidence that the two witchers share the same hairstyle.

Jaskier is humming as he wets Geralt’s hair. It’s the same tune that he was singing earlier in the day, when Geralt shushed him while he was trying to read the griffin contract. 

“I interrupted you earlier,” Geralt murmurs, already somewhat hypnotized by the bard’s hands in his hair. “Maybe you could finish your song.” 

Jaskier chuckles but doesn’t tease. Instead, he sings. 

_Her skin was like the lily white that grows in yonder valley, oh_

_She’s my queen and my heart’s delight, the flower of Maherally, oh_

_I hope the day will surely come when we’ll join hands together, oh_

_‘Tis then I’ll take my darling home in spite of wind and weather, oh_

Geralt knows Jaskier didn’t write this particular ballad because he never would have made every line end in “oh” just so it would all rhyme. But it’s a nice song, made all the prettier with Jaskier’s voice. It’s not a performance, which would be sung from the diaphragm. His voice is softer—more intimate—to match their closeness. 

Geralt’s eyelids flutter when Jaskier starts to shampoo his hair, working from the nape of his neck up to the crown of his head. He gently scritches Geralt’s scalp with his nails. Geralt, nearly asleep at this point, startles himself with a soft moan. 

Jaskier laughs quietly, affectionate rather than poking fun. “It’s all right, witcher. Feels good?” 

Geralt can’t articulate words at the moment, so he just makes an affirmative sound. Jaskier washes his hair for much longer than is necessary. The water is cooling by the time Jaskier rinses out the suds and slicks a small amount of fragrant oil through his hair to condition it. Geralt smells like a veritable field of wildflowers by the time he falls into bed next to Jaskier, and he is so relaxed that he doesn’t give a singular fuck. Jaskier pets Geralt’s damp hair and sings him to sleep.

_And let them all say what they will and let them reel and rally, oh_

_For I shall wed the girl I love, the flower of Maherally, oh_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated! Come hang out with me on Tumblr (same username).


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